This is the story of Bedroom Theater, how it came to be, and how it made its way onto the road. Persons came on a weekly basis, and left in a huff. Eventually I needed to re-evaluate my own psychological scheme, and that perhaps something more should be asked of a person than that they open up their bedroom once a week to a slew of strangers with a hankering for theater.

It is as much a memoir of a particular time in Boston as anything else, a time when hopelessness was rife, but also a time when persons were doing their damnedest to create a modest creative atmosphere in which the best in us can sing. I often look back at that time as a perfect example of the Dickensian dichotomy in practice. We did what we could, but as usual all we could wasn’t good enough. Eventually, I would take Bedroom Theater on the road, my forays into the bedrooms of America ending in the Nevada desert, but that’s a whole other story.I was slipping into debt at that time, and refused to leave my room, so I decided to bring the world to me instead, painting the plays for the week on my wall of windows. Eventually a stage was built by Mr. Waters (Somer, nephew to the more famous John), and the local newspapers took an interest, only to declare it a failed attempt as is to be expected. Occasional romantic failures dot these pages, and petty rivalries. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.